


Running Amok

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Star Trek, Supernatural
Genre: Bonding, Crack, Crossover, Humor, M/M, Pon Farr, Psychic Bond, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unapologetic crack. Written to the prompt, "What SPN fandom needs is a fic where one of the boys goes into pon farr - maybe there's a Vulcan ancestor in their background? - and the other has to help his brother thru the process."<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Amok

"What do you mean, _Pon Farr_?" Sam asks, and his voice feels really high pitched right now but he can't help it—not when Dean is talking _crazy_ and staring at him like it's Sam that's out of his mind.

"It's a mating thing," Dean explains patiently. "Like salmon."

"Dean, I know what Pon Farr is. I've watched just as much science fiction as you have." But that's the point of course. That's the _problem_ here. Science _fiction_. Sam levels his best patient look at Dean and says, "I think you're confusing real life with porn _and_ Star Trek."

"Look, this is going to be a little bit hard to believe," Dean hedges. "But Star Trek _is_ real life."

"Really." Sam's pretty sure his lack of awe is obvious on his face.

"Well not _exactly_. They didn't get every _detail_ right, as far as I know. Which isn't much, really, I mean… can't know too much about the future, right? Spacetime continuum and all that."

" _Dean_ ," Sam cuts him off. "This stopped being funny about ten minutes ago." Except for how it wasn't even that funny then.

"I'm not messing with you here, Sam," says Dean, and when he steps forward his face is so intent that Sam almost believes him. "You and me, we've got some… different blood in our heritage. And I don't mean demon."

"Right," says Sam, rolling his eyes because he knows where this is going. "Our great, great grandfather was a Vulcan."

"It was our great, great, great grand _mother_ , actually," says Dean. "Her name was T'Perin. I saw a picture once. She was really hot. The family had to tell everyone she was Chinese and make sure she didn't ever get paper cuts in public."

"Dean, this is ridiculous."

"C'mere," says Dean, and his eyes look so bright and intense that Sam obeys without even thinking. Dean holds out his hand as Sam approaches, fingers positioned in a peculiar gesture: his middle and index fingers extend straight ahead, his thumb and other two fingers curl into half a fist. It looks a whole lot like the sign language letter "H".

"What are you doing?" says Sam, because he's pretty sure he recognizes that gesture. "I'm not your… your Vulcan _wife_ , dude."

"You don't think all this is real anyway," Dean points out. "What harm can it do." So Sam sighs and mimics the gesture, letting the tips of his fingers touch Dean's.

The contact sends an unexpected jolt through him, a force of sensation that nearly knocks him on his ass—heat and want and hunger and _fuck_ , if Dean's telling the truth—if Dean's telling the truth and _that's_ what it feels like inside his head right now—how is his brother even holding a conversation? Sam jerks his hand away with a yelp, glaring at the mirthful smirk in Dean's eyes.

"Told you," he says.

Sam glowers and says, "Yeah, well. You're the worst Vulcan ever. So how come this Pon Farr bullshit is affecting you and not me?"

"Because I'm older, dumbass." Dean rolls his eyes. "It'll probably hit you in a few more years, too. Didn't happen to Dad until he was thirty."

"Oh god, I don't want to know _that_!" Sam exclaims. "Hey! How come he told you and not me?"

"Well, it's." Dean swallows and looks a little sheepish. "It's sort of a cyclical thing. Every seven years, give or take. It snuck up on Dad once and he couldn't very well _not_ explain when I noticed him acting like a crazy person. He was pretty far gone by the time he realized, and he couldn't… y'know. Without help."

"Oh god, Dean. Tell me you didn't. Not with Dad."

"What?" Dean looks perplexed for a moment, and then a horrified expression slides across his face. "Oh _hell_ no! Sam, that's disgusting! I just found him someone."

"Oh. Good. So uh, what are _you_ gonna do."

"Find someone," Dean smirks. "I just figured you should know what's going on." He says it lightheartedly, and Sam realizes Dean means _now_. He's going to go out to some bar and pick a mate out at goddamn random, and something about that thought makes Sam sick to his stomach.

"Hey, Dean? How permanent is it? The… I mean, on Star Trek Vulcans mate for life, right?"

"Yeah," says Dean. "It doesn't really work _quite_ like that. I mean there's a bond, yeah. And it's permanent. But it's not like you're stuck fucking the same person your whole life just because you bonded to them, you know?"

"But you do _bond_ to someone. Forever."

"Well… yeah. That's sort of the point. I mean, it sucks, but—"

"And you're just going to pick some _stranger_ to do this with?" Sam cuts him off, absolutely appalled.

"Give me an alternative, Sam," says Dean. The lightness disappears from his demeanor as he says it, a new, pointed challenge lighting his eyes, and Sam realizes that _this_ is why Dean told him. He doesn't want some stranger in a bar.

He wants Sam, but more, he wants Sam to come to _him_.

Sam realizes with a hard, heavy jolt just how okay with that he is.

"You're not leaving this room," he says, stepping in close and looming right in Dean's space. "You're _not_ picking up some anonymous yahoo in a bar. You're not bonding with _anyone_ that isn't me."

Dean stares at him long enough that Sam wonders for a moment if he's fucked it up. Maybe he read the cues wrong. Maybe Dean wants nothing to do with him—and who could blame him for that, because come on, _incest_.

But then Dean smiles, a wide, predatory grin that's all teeth. "Then we'd better get to work. This bonding thing can take a while."

Hours later, when they lie exhausted and wrung out and wrapped all around each other, Sam marvels at the feel of Dean's mind humming happily against the edges of his own. He doesn’t know how he can tell the difference—Dean's feelings versus Sam himself—but there's definitely a distinctive sensation that tells him that at least some of the contentment seeping into his bones belongs to Dean. Sam welcomes it, revels in it, clings to the sense of peace, however temporary it may be. Tomorrow there will still be monsters on the other side of that door, after all, same as every day before.

But for now, Sam sighs and nestles closer along his brother's back. He traces Dean's fingers with his own, thrilling quietly at the intimate brush of thoughts, and drifts softly to sleep.


End file.
